Reprieve
by w.s.caer
Summary: Post-Marnie one shot. Eric visits Sookie after a violent encounter.


**Title**: Reprieve  
**Word Count**: 3198  
**A/N**: Post-Marnie AU, any time. One shot. Primarily _True Blood_, but if any novel references pop up, just roll with it.

* * *

The house is dark, an imposing silhouette against the night sky.

He shouldn't have come, he knows that, not with this mood he's in – a dark storm of bloodlust and something decidedly dangerous rolling across his mind, and he has to close his eyes to make a conscious effort in retracting his fangs – but his blood in her sings out to him like the Sirens of old, beckoning him ever closer, and he would gladly turn his vessel to crash upon her rocks.

There's an absence of moonlight, but even still he can make out her huddled figure on the stoop, a mess of blonde curls as she dips her head to the cup between her hands.

Irritation dances down his spine and he allows himself a moment's indulgence in it. Hadn't she learned anything? Undoubtedly any fledgling vampire could jump her, ripping through skin and bone to gorge on her blood before she could make it to the safety of her door, and then –

He tsks. And then where would he be?

Forced to find solace in the slow death of her killers, that's where. All because she was too stubborn to pursue feelings already admitted, to trust him.

Eric growls in annoyance, the same thoughts running through his head far too many times in the passing months. It's foolish to feel the loss of something that, no matter how it starts, would end with her death every time.

And yet, when he allows himself to drift to those few days at her house – to recall the sun in her hair, remember the slide of bare flesh, his name on her lips as she shuddered her release – something inside him aches with want, and he thinks maybe it isn't so crazy to lose himself in her.

A wind picks up, chilly, given how she tucks her legs in tighter, but still makes no move to go inside.

Eric drags a foot against the rough ground and sees her stiffen, adrenaline spiking her system, instinct and experience warning her of predators near by.

Good girl.

"Who's there?" she calls out, cautious, slowly uncurling her legs as she sets aside the mug to pick up what looks like a long pole that's leaning against the railing and steps off the porch.

A shotgun. Not entirely unprepared then, no matter how ineffective the weapon.

In an instant, Eric's behind her, easily plucking the gun away, and lips tracing her ear. "Boo," he whispers.

She's a whirlwind of anger and relief. "Prick," she bites out and he can't help but grin. A perverse pleasure unfurls in his chest when next she shoves him for good measure. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

A few feet are all that separates them. Eric closes it quickly, her protests muffled against his shoulder when he fists her hair, leans down, and inhales. He breathes her in over and over, forcing centuries old lungs to bend to his will, filling the recesses of his mind with nothing but her day – a mixture of sweat and grease layered with the yeasty odour of alcohol from her shift at the bar; the polish from her brother's gun; freshly dug earth, grass and flowers. There is one other which he ignores for now, not allowing this to be tainted, and wills himself to find her essence.

There.

Honey. Wheat. Sunshine.

His gums pulse with an ache so deep to be inside her. To consume her. There's a moan and it can't be from him, so needy and desperate?

A flick to the ear brings him back, and he staggers a few steps in retreat, startled.

"Hands and fangs to yourself, buddy."

Eric closes his eyes for a moment, breathing deep the last of her scent, unable to resist licking his lips. "Such a tease."

She's frowning at him when he opens his eyes, a little tug on her mouth that's not entirely unattractive. Warmth, coloured with worry, floods his senses and he knows it's her concern that thrums through his veins, touching every inch of him, demanding him to submit to its metaphysical embrace; he does so with fervour, savouring the knowledge that he might hold a piece of her heart.

"What happened?" she gestures towards him, towards the congealed red ooze that clings to his mouth, chin, pooled in the crevices of his neck.

It had been Pam who first alerted him to the presence of the interlopers in Fangtasia. Clever, they were not, self-assured in their kinship of him to join the hunt for the sweet vessel of blood – a fae, they'd heard. Not used to denying himself anything, even Eric had been surprised with the swift response of his rage, and the immense gratification, as he shred muscle from bone, unyieldingly ruthless as he thought of Sookie's life in their hands.

No, it would not be tolerated.

"Midnight snack," Eric drawls lazily, effusing lightness he doesn't feel in his tone, his posture. He's never one to miss anything: the stench of Were – Herveaux – clings heavy to her and something dark and listless claws inside him in return, howling to be released. "And what sort of…" he drags hard eyes slowly over her figure, "…snacking have you been doing tonight, Sookie?"

Her eyes narrow defiantly. "I'm not a tree to be pissed on, Eric."

"Well, when you're fucking dogs," he throws back in her face, sharply, but all she does is raise an eyebrow, looking almost disappointed for the briefest of moments and he can't bring himself to feign regret when all he wants is her touch, her looks, her words, no matter how scathing or angry.

"Isn't there a fangbanger somewhere you need to be sticking your fangs into?"

He smirks because he's supposed to, but the words taste bitter in his mouth because the truth is he's more affected at the prospect of another man in her bed than he allows to show. "Jealous, lover?"

"As I would be for herpes," she deadpans, although annoyance and temper simmer through her blood and he feels it as keenly as if it were his own.

"Liar," he taunts.

"Pot. Kettle." Only after it leaves her mouth she realizes, now, her mistake, how she has tipped her hand.

The blush that rises to her checks is delicious and pretty, and his anger of only seconds ago gives way to something much more gratifying.

"Stop it," Sookie says with petulance as his mouth stretches into a grin. Eric feels the proverbial boy pulling on proverbial pigtails, and her ire only rises. "As if you're not insufferable enough." She glares at him a little while longer, but it's lost the heat from earlier. Her eyes travel along his jaw and down his neck. "Ew. That's disgusting, Eric," she says when he licks away the dried blood he flakes off his chin. Then, she sucks in her lower lip between her teeth and his eyes zero in on the action, his body remembering how they scraped over his neck and down the ridges of his chest, how he thought the heat of her mouth might burn hotter than the sun itself.

She blows out a breath, and nods at him. "Wait here." She leaves a wide berth, keeping out of his immediate reach to pick up the gun he carelessly tossed to the ground, and goes into the house. Curiosity gets the better of him as he listens to the faint sounds of padding feet across the floor, cabinets being opened and closed, the running tap, and, finally, the lights flickering on before her return to the porch, armed with a bowl of water and cloth. "C'mon, let's clean you up." It's mostly exasperation, but the way her tongue curves around the words, softening the abrasive tone – one could almost mistake it for a touch of affection.

His enthusiasm dims when he catches a whiff of wolf again. "You invited him inside?"

She merely rolls her eyes. "None of that now."

Eric purses his lips, sullen again at the thought of a man not him inside her home; it doesn't last long, disappearing with the light touch of her hand as she tugs him down on the small staircase.

Sookie sits on the step above him and angles his head better toward the porch light with two fingers under his chin, trying to determine where best to start. His own fingers find their way around her ankles, securing themselves lightly, thumbs rubbing soothingly over her soft skin.

She works methodically, dipping the cloth in water, wringing it, and then wiping gently across his brow and down the contours of his face. Rinse, repeat. Slowly, like a loose thread of a garment being pulled, she unwinds him, teases him apart, until he feels soft and pliable in her hands.

There's a longing that settles deep in his bones, as unfamiliar to him as her gentle touch. He wants to close his eyes and lay his head on her lap, feel her fingertips lose themselves in his hair, her scent infusing itself in the pores of his dead skin, breathing him to life.

This isn't the first time she's tended to him, a tub of water and washcloth in hand.

A content hum starts in the back of his throat.

He doesn't understand this need for her – why he seeks her favour, why she is a balm to something untamed inside him; how she's managed to unearth affection from a place he hasn't used since he was alive. Even when he'd been lost to himself she hadn't been lost to him, the tenderness he so tightly contained transgressing spells and a millennia of forgotten memories to gush out of him helplessly at her feet.

She had loved it. Had loved _him_.

And now that he's got a taste, he's not entirely sure he's willing to give it up.

"Eric."

Only then he realizes his eyes have slipped closed. He opens them grudgingly.

She brushes some of his hair away from his forehead, eyes decidedly soft, and he wonders if she's remembering, too, the last time she did this, when she thought it safe to touch him with unguarded gentleness and care. This time last year, he would have flossed his fangs with the entrails of any who might have suggested he would come to crave this same touch.

The tips of her fingers graze lightly across his face and he grabs her wrist as she pulls back. Placing a soft kiss in her palm, he breathes out, "Ask me to stay, Sookie." There's a hunger in him that pushes against his insides, expanding into the empty space of his chest. "Ask me inside," he murmurs into her skin. Kisses the inside of her wrist. Nuzzles his nose up her arm. Over her shoulder. Licks the spot below her ear. "Say you want me."

Desire is thick in the air and thick in his blood. The only heartbeat amongst them dances fast and erratic in its cage. Her fingers twist in his shirt. Her breath hot against his neck. The flutter of lashes against his cheek.

The hand that had been resting so comfortably on the nape of her neck moves up to her chin now, his thumb pulling down to part her lips. "Please." Eric mouths the word hungrily, longingly, on her lips, wanting her to taste it on his skin. And he's finally beginning to realize that when it comes to her there isn't a mask he's willing to shed, no time that exists when he won't fall to his knees and lay prostrate for her heart.

She looks at him now with an awareness Eric hasn't witnessed since he lay broken on a bed beneath her house. He'd once told her his other self and him were one and same and he pushes that to the forefront of his being, opening himself before her, wanting to sway the indecision that has her biting her lip.

She puts a hand on his cheek, to hold him at bay or feel him under her, he can't say, but welcomes the touch regardless. Overwhelming desire has him pushing his face further into her hand, rubbing his stubbled cheek over the flesh of her palm.

He slides her over so she straddles his lap, knees on either side of his hips, fitting perfectly against him. Her hot little hands settle on his chest.

"This might be the stupidest thing I've done," she murmurs.

He can't help but smile. Nudges her nose with his. "It's only me," he promises.

"That's the problem."

And he smiles again at her slightly sullen tone; even now, at the brink of giving into them, she remains defiant to the last – he reminds himself he has always admired her tenacity.

Eric nips at her mouth, feeling her hands slide up, curling around the base of his skull, thumbs pressing into the side of his face to cup his head as he leans back in to press his lips against hers. It's a soft kiss, with none of the urgency and all the lightness that rolls through him, and he feels her sigh in his mouth as his tongue runs along her upper lip, suckling it gently in his mouth. She tastes like she always has; comfort and promise and sunshine and home all rolling together in her mouth.

It's fitting, he thinks, that this should happen on the steps of her home once again, where she first beckoned him into her arms.

Eric pulls back, allowing her to catch air for a moment, but she chases his lips, slanting her mouth, hard, over his, nipping and sucking on his tongue. Before he even has a chance to groan, she rolls against his hips. Does it again, and it doesn't take long for her to find a rhythm or for Eric to come close to losing his mind. He licks every inch of skin in reach. Yanks the collar of her shirt down harshly, and somehow manages to free a breast for his mouth.

"Yes," she hisses in his ear, arching into his mouth as he uses his teeth and lips and tongue on her nipple. Pulls the hair tightly fisted in her hands and the sensation goes straight to his cock. The lust in their blood is intoxicating – a slow burn that licks through his chest and neck and has him shifting listlessly against her incessant rocking. This shouldn't feel as good as it does. She shouldn't have him a mess of want and need and the urge to _lickbitefuck_ with all their clothes still between them.

A sharp tug on his head has him lifting it to find her lips with his own. Then her hand is reaching under his shirt, grazes past the flat of his stomach and up to tweak a nipple. He growls against her mouth. Sookie rubs a hand soothingly along his neck; all the while the other is still fastened around his nipple, pinching and rolling until it's taut and he's fisting her head tight against his own. Her fingers are all sinful pleasure.

When he slips a hand down her shorts it's difficult to say who groans louder at the wetness he finds. He teases along her folds, smiling when her nails dig into his shoulders.

"Eric," and she tries to say it sternly, but it's a breathless whisper, the sound undoing him further. "Don't – " her voice cuts off as he eases a finger just barely inside and he smiles at this, too, loving the need that plays across her face. Feels it in her alongside his.

The way she screws her eyes shut as he works his way fully inside is the same as he sees in his dreams. Muscles clamp tightly down around him, slick heat that is all his doing and he groans at the thought, satisfaction lacing his blood and he can't resist the urge to push in a second digit to accompany the first.

"Oh fuck," she sighs. "_Fuck_."

Indeed.

She remembers to look at him – that pleases him greatly – holding his gaze through half lidded eyes as he pumps his fingers, her hips helping him give the friction she seeks. She leans forward, runs a hand through his hair, and he leans forward, too, catching her mouth again to swallow the noises that make him go crazy. When her tongue slides over his fangs, lips forming a seal over each of the sensitive tips in turn – he's certain his pleasure will burn him up.

His lips and hands are warm from stolen heat, his head dizzy with the smell of her; he can hear the pounding of her heart, can feel it beat against his chest as if it were his own, and it's a faint glimpse of what it feels to be alive as she shifts with abandon on his fingers, one crooked to reach that spot, the pad of his thumb running tight circles on the little nub that will have her breaking by his hand –

The moment shatters, splintering into infinite pieces, with the sound of whooshing air.

Sookie reacts before he can, a testament to the depth of pleasure he's lost in. She jerks back abruptly, one of his fangs nicking her lower lip in the process. Eric blinks, watches her lick away the tiny bead of blood that pops up, and only then recognizes their interruption.

"My, my, isn't this cosy?"

Pam.

"What," he bites out. Sookie leans forward on his shoulder, breath coming in short, hard pants; a firm hand on her hip keeping her in place on his lap. She tugs on the arm still between her legs, but he stubbornly keeps it in place. He won't let her run, not now.

"We have a situation at Fangtasia."

For fuck's sake. "So deal with it."

The unreleased tension from the sudden derailment of her orgasm eats at him more than her, it seems, as she pulls his fingers out and fixes her shirt. "Duty calls, Sheriff." The resignation in her tone burns him. He has half a mind to push her against the railing and show her exactly where his duties lie.

"Eric, it can't wait."

Sookie's already off his lap and up the steps, the forgotten bowl of bloody water in her arms. He could easily force her to stay put, but the only bruises from his fingers he wants on her skin are when she'll writhe under him as he finally again slides into her.

"We're not done with this," he tells her firmly. There's the matter of Herveaux as well.

"Sure."

Eric grits his teeth at the careless hand she waves over her shoulder, her intention to avoid this night voiced clear in her dismissal.

Not if he can help it.

Even if it takes him to the edge of his true death, he will carve his place in her heart like she has already carved a place in his.

He brings his fingers to his mouth, coated still with her desire for him, and sucks clean each one, savouring the familiar sweetness.

After all, he has already done it once. She can't run forever.

* * *

**Thoughts always welcome.**


End file.
